I love rotisserie chicken. I suppose Achilles had his heel and I have the Publix Deli. All my life I’ve eaten it, usually for two meals a day. There’s just something magical that happens in that glass box. I’ve always loved rotisserie chicken, but my body hasn’t, in fact it’s been fighting it for years.

I’ve always tried to lose weight, but I just lack that stick-to-it-iveness that diets seem to belligerently demand. Life’s too short to be counting calories as you stroll down the aisle of a grocery store, weighing out the love of food or the chaffing of inflated thighs. Much too short. I had stuck by this mindset for years, defending myself, my philosophy, and my chicken. I defended all that up until my heart attack.

It was a mild affair, I didn’t even go to the hospital, that would mean a surrender in my beliefs and having to concede to my ex-wife’s persistent bitching. I was stubborn, but not stupid, it didn’t take any family intervention or T.V. health guru to tell me that I was in trouble. I haven’t walked to my mailbox in so long I think the post office just stopped delivering. I knew I had to do something.

I didn’t just do something, I did everything. Two tummy tucks, nose jobs, breast implants, facial lifts, implant removals, oil changes and five hospital waiting rooms later I was a changed man. I felt pride but with a sick aftertaste of defeat that I pushed to the back of the attic of my mind; where losing my trunks at the city pool, my horrid first kiss, and that incident with the inappropriate erection during mass all lay, gathering dust.

Now me and rotisserie chicken are just friends, seeing each other awkwardly from time to time, talking about the rain and the Miami Dolphins and just getting more depressed. I must admit, I keep a calculator in my pocket whenever I take that stroll down the aisle’s at the grocery store. A simple machine, easy enough to add up carbs and divide servings. I’ve changed, but old habits die hard. I still don’t listen to my ex-wife and my mailbox continues on, unused.